Shadow Of The Bat: Bats of a Leather
by killakenny
Summary: The Dark Knight's life hangs on the brink and an unsuspecting Tim Drake, who has not yet been chosen to be Robin, defends him until help arrives in the form of Nightwing. After these events, Nightwing believes Tim is the perfect candidate to take up the mantle of Robin after the death of Jason Todd. Batman doesn't share the same sentiment. Can Nightwing convince Batman otherwise?
1. Endless War

SHADOW OF THE BAT: Bats of a Leather

The Dark Knight is in trouble. His life hangs on the brink and an unsuspecting Tim Drake, who has not yet been chosen to be Robin, defends him until help arrives in the form of Nightwing. After these events, Nightwing believes Tim is the perfect candidate to take up the mantle of Robin after the death of Jason Todd. Batman, however, doesn't share the same sentiment. Can Nightwing convince Batman to reconsider? And, if Batman does, does Tim have what it takes to make it through the training required to take-on the responsibilities as Robin? Can Tim fill the shoes of Dick Grayson and Jason Todd or will Lady Shiva and agents of the League of Shadows kill Tim before he can prove himself worthy? Batman, Nightwing, and Tim have their hands full as they learn to work together as a team and dish-out vigilante justice.

Bats of a Leather is a short story that recounts and re-envisions the meeting, training, and integration of the third Robin onto Batman's team of heroes. Get ready to earn on your capes and your cowls!

By Killa Kenny

Disclaimer:

I do not own Batman. DC Comics and Bob Kane do. I'm just a huge fan that grew up in the shadow of the bat that wants to expand the mythos.

* * *

/Journal Entry #416 of Bruce Wayne/

There's a war raging on the streets of Gotham. In seven years, fourteen thousand people have been killed. Analysts claim that Gotham City is _merely_ the crime capitol. Authorities consider it beyond saving—or just not worth the effort.

I disagree on both accounts.

I would argue that in any Third World city where two thousand people are consistently murdered per annum, analysts would categorize the city as being gripped in civil war. But, not in the case of a premier city like Gotham. No, not in Gotham. No one cares for Gotham. It is simply a place where criminals go to vacation; it's a market for them to sell their contraband; it's a graveyard for them to bury their secrets. Criminals pay vast sums of money to keep it that way.

I would also argue that Gotham is not beyond saving; authorities have abandoned it because it's not lucrative—and because they fear reprisal. They instead exchange wealth and favors to allow the criminals to carve out neo-feudal empires and to wage neo-tribal warfare at the expense of the people. Gotham is not a city with elevated crime, it is a city under occupation.

But, history has always proven where there there's occupation, there's resistance. I am that resistance. I am the only thing standing between Gotham and oblivion.

I had not become all of this at once. It happened over many years as I incubated in pain and in misery. Wandering through the minefield of un-life as the war continued to rage around me. I was wrapped in darkness. I wretched and ached as I changed, until my transformation was complete. I emerged from a chrysalis on the grave of my murdered parents as something _else_. I was reanimated by the darkness and it demanded my service in Gotham's name. So, it was with an oath that I was repurposed:

 _"From this moment forward, I swear that I will strike at evil from the shadows in defense of the weak. I swear that I will regard the lives of others above my own and make war on all criminals. I swear that I will become the last bastion of defense in Gotham, defending it to the last person and leaving the wicked to fear its borders. I swear to accept judgment when my mission is complete and never become like my enemy."_

I am not the cliche light at the end of a dark tunnel—I am the dark tunnel. I am a monster. I am a beast—born in the womb of the hatred, the sadism, and the greed of an enemy occupation. I am a phantasm that echoes the evils that men do. I am retribution, dark and unforgiving. I vowed to make war to end war. I vowed endless war to end the occupation of Gotham, to free its people. I vowed to become the very monster that criminals and miscreants feared. It was a Faustian vow that only I could take, a path that only I could walk. This is a burden that only I could carry. No one other me could take on such a responsibility—so I thought.

There are others.

Their losses have been as tragic my own. Try as I may to resist, they've proven just as resolute to take to the battlefield with me to make endless war to end war. What human compassion I have left urges them from this path but I cannot dictate the destinies of others. In the end, my understanding accepts that they must make their own choices, come what may.

No crusade comes without casualty. The blood of the righteous was, and always will be, spilled in the name of the defenseless. Others have taken up the vow, only to be destroyed by it. A vow to make endless war will only end tragically. Thus is the reward for righteousness. But, we will not be deterred.

Their sacrifices only amplify my own suffering—I hurt when they hurt—but I hope that this crusade brings them peace in the end. I hope that it bids them more undisturbed sleep than I am allowed. I hope it lights their tunnel and provides them a hopeful path that will one day lead them to a peaceful, blissful existence where fear, corruption, and enemy occupation are not the foundation of their world. Individually, we are but crude mortals fighting in the dark for a better tomorrow. Together, however, we are a force of nature, a maelstrom bombarding the decadent shores of corruption and swallowing it in a cleansing fire of change. We are unified under the mantle of the Bat—a unification in perdition and a motivation to bring wrathful justice to the hell that has consumed Gotham City.

Not just anyone can be a Bat, however. Only the most morally fit can shoulder a burden so heavy and so demanding. To be a Bat, one just cannot take any vow. In order to be a Bat, one must earn it. Becoming a Bat, though, starts with a simple, small gesture that challenges that which makes us human. Anyone holding a title of the Bat will forever remain nameless and their deeds will always go unknown.

Nightwing, Oracle, Robin, and Jason before him, you are my family, bound by cause, adopted by tragedy. We see through darkness to a better tomorrow, though far off. We are Bats of a leather.


	2. Complacency

:::Two years prior to the events of SHADOW OF THE BAT: Best Served Cold:::

10:13 PM Batman

I watched my prey from the darkness, only the humidity of breath visible in the shadows. My prey entered the parking garage riding in two rusted sedans and dusty, blue mini-van all occupied by six parasites who drained the life-blood of Gotham little-by-little. I had been watching these six on the same night every week for several weeks.

The largest of them was a Cambodian arms dealer from the Twin Cities named Nhean Chey. The other five—white males, locals with little notoriety—were his hired help. I doubted that he paid them very much, he wasn't very wealthy himself. But, money wasn't easy to come by in Gotham so any money they could score was worth their struggle.

I had been watching their operation for some time and their predictability had made them complacent. They returned here weekly to make their deals. Initially, they were sheepish and uneasy, jumping at every sound or movement. They would shine headlights or flashlights into every corner and point their guns in all directions, fearing that I was stalking them—which I was but I wouldn't leave my hiding places. If I jumped at every little opportunity to crush small time conmen and minimum-wage drug dealers, I would never be able to gather intel on the _bigger fish_. Big fish tended to go to ground when things got hot. So I watched for weeks until I decided the time was right. That time came when I found out they were going to meet with two representatives from Harvey "Two-Face" Dent's camp—his militia that he called The Executioners.

Apparently my prey believed that they were safe, that this parking garage protected them, and that I was paying no notice to their movements or dealings. They had become complacent. With each meeting, they became less and less skittish. The prey began to believe that there was no natural predator to keep their numbers in check. That was going to change tonight, though. Tonight I intended to cull the herd. I intended to divide them, bring them low, and send a message back to Two-Face and his militia.

My prey exited their vehicles and gathered in a huddle around Nhean who explained the intricacies of the deal while they awaited the arrival of Two-Face's people. Several minutes later, I could hear a car ascending the ramp of the garage.

The car came to a stop behind Nhean's caravan, shining its lights onto the group. Two black males exited the vehicle and approached Nhean and his entourage, one of them gesturing back toward the car. "We got the money, if you got the merchandise," he said.

Nhean beamed. "I always deliver when the money's right. The Penguin wouldn't have recommended me if it weren't true."

"Dark enough in here isn't?" the other of Two-Face's goons noted.

"Would you prefer the whole world to see what we're doing?"

"You sure this is a secure location?"

"The cops aren't gonna come looking for us if that's what you mean. I know a guy who knows guy, if you're picking up what I'm putting down."

"I was referring to the Bat."

"We've been dealing here for weeks and the Bat hasn't showed up. My operation is too small for him. He prefers the big fish."

Irony.

I pulled a shuriken from my belt and, from the darkness, threw it across the garage at an aluminum can I had positioned on the roof of an indistinct car. The noise wasn't loud but it drew the attention of Two-Face's boys. Nhean and his crew appeared unaffected; their complacency was deeply rooted.

I had planted several traps before they arrived. While I could take on all eight of them in a head-to-head fight, I wanted to dismantle them psychologically. Doing so ensured that I was in control. It made me a monster in their eyes. And, they'd go back and tell their buddies that I'm like the monsters in the horror tales they read or watched as children. Theatrics were my greatest weapon.

"Chill, that happens all the time. Probably the pipes," said Nhean. "You boys sure are jumpy."

He was right, it did happen all the time. I did it every time they were here with the sole purpose of desensitizing them to it.

"The Bat tends to haunt places like this. And, Two-Face is pretty particular about the Bat's interference."

"I don't believe in ghosts."

"Well, Two-Face believes in him and not believing in what Two-Face believes in, when he's paying you, generally has painful results."

"You militia boys are special."

"You trying to offend us?"

"No no no…"

I tugged at a wire that I had attached to a trashcan in the far corner, toppling it with a _clang_! The militiamen jumped, Nhean's people didn't so much as twitch. I had two more effects to deploy before I made a move.

"Two-Face has got y'all wound too tight," Nhean laughed. "Come on, I'll show you what I got." He waved them toward his car.

They formed a half moon around the trunk as one of Nhean's men opened it. The militiamen whistled in delight.

"What I tell you? I deliver don't I?" the Cambodian said smugly.

One of the militiamen rested his head in his hand. "Yes you do."

"You like?"

"I do."

"Will Two-Face like?"

"He definitely will."

"Let's talk prices then."

"How much?"

"How much you got?"

I left my hiding spot and slithered to a position behind a waist-level cement wall that separated two parking aisles. The weeks' psy-ops had reached their end…

They were still negotiating as I settled into the shadows and readied my ambush. I pulled my mobile device from my utility belt and keyed an application resembling a vehicle. Immediately adjacent to my hiding spot, but on the other side of the wall with trunk pointing in my direction, was a venerable sedan whose engine suddenly turned-over and coughed until it finally started. The engine rumbled agitatedly and the headlights shined directly on the congregation. I watched their video feed—from a camera had placed elsewhere in the garage—on my mobile, covering the light with my cape.

They all turned sharply. "The hell is that?" one of them said aloud, pulling a gun.

Nhean, his men, and Two-Face's militiamen were silent for almost a minute as they stared into the sedan's headlights.

"Marco," Nhean said getting one of his goon's attention. Marco didn't answer, he just looked at Nhean spooked. "Go check that out." Marco nodded reluctantly and approached the vehicle cautiously from their huddle on the other side of the parking aisle.

Blinded by the headlights, he angled away to flank the sedan as he suspiciously walked up to it. He surveyed the driver's seat, taking note that it appeared unoccupied. He looked over his shoulder at Nhean and the others who had since gone back to negotiating.

I double-tapped the application and the trunk creaked open with a hollow _click_ , a dull yellow shined out beckoning him to have look. His suspicion increased visibly and he pushed in between the sedan and the car next to it, looking into the cab of the rumbling car, confirming its emptiness; his face twisted and he continued to the trunk. Marco looked over his shoulder one more time before committing to the inspection; Nhean wasn't paying attention. Marco bent slightly at the waist and looked into the trunk; his back was to me. That's when I struck.

I shot over the wall and snatched him, dragging him across it without anyone noticing. He tried to yell but I muffled it as I pulled him over the partition and out of sight. I jammed my finger behind the trigger of his gun so he wouldn't fire it in a panic and wrenched it from his hand. He struggled to get free, so I pacified him by drilling him twice in the cheekbone with the handle of the gun. Then I pressed my fingers into his jugular; he thought he was being strangled. He stared at me with strained, reddening eyes as he slipped into unconsciousness.

One last effect to deploy. I left that hiding spot for another behind a nearby stanchion. "Two-Face may think I'm a small-timer but that doesn't mean he can punk me," Nhean said rubbing his forearm with his opposite hand. "I won't take anything less than what I offered you."

"I'm telling you, Nhean, we're not trying to scam you out of money. We just know how much Two-Face is willing to pay and he won't budge."

"Hold that thought." Nhean held a finger up and swung his head around. "Where the hell did Marco go?"

One of his men pointed towards the old, running sedan. "He was right over there."

I tapped the application again. Suddenly, the alarms of a dozen cars situated in no distinct ordered around the group began to scream, flashing their lights and sounding their horns. The men spun befuddled circles with their guns raised.

I zipped out from behind the stanchion and moved to another fifteen feet away. Two of the men saw me out of the corners of their eyes. "What the hell was that?" they yelled.

"What?" Nhean said above the alarms.

"There's something over there," one the militiamen practically shrieked. "I shouldn't have met you guys in here."

"There's something weird going on in here. Let's just pack up and go."

"You think it's the Bat, Nhean?" one of the goons.

"Man, I hope not," he replied, backing up cautiously towards his vehicle. "Let's go."

"What about Marco?" another asked.

"Marco's a grown man, he can handle himself. Get in the cars."

The militiamen were the first to their vehicle. Nhean and his crew hesitated, just as curious as they were uneasy. The constant strobe of lights and alarms played havoc on their senses and the looked this way and that.

I emerged from behind my stanchion into plain view—a massive cone of solid black and arctic anger—and one of Nhean's crew saw me finally. "Holy shit! Look!"

They all turned and raised their weapons. By the time they opened fire, I was gone. The sound of gunfire polluted the sound of car alarms and the smell of burnt rubber accompanied the squealing of tires as Two-Face's militiamen sped out of the garage as quickly as they could.

I crouched behind a car about twenty feet from Nhean's crew's flank as they hammered the cars and concrete in the direction where they last saw me. I drew a high-explosive grenade from my utility belt, pulled its pin, and rolled it under a nearby car. There was enough standoff to prevent any casualties, but still cause enough damage and confusion.

I turned the gain down in my earcuffs…

 _KA-BOOM_!

The concussion shattered the windows on the car and tore two of its doors off. The blast rocked Nhean and his crew and they took cover where ever cover was available.

Staying out of sight, I moved swiftly from cover until I was behind one of the goons. He didn't see me until I was on top of him choking the air from his lungs. He had some fight in him and struggled beneath my grip. I gritted my teeth trying to keep him under control but couldn't stop his gun from going off. The bullet ricocheted off the door of the car he was hiding behind. My right cheek instantly burned but I didn't pay it any attention. I squeezed harder and the goon went limp.

The rest of Nhean's crew were yelling to their comrade over the cacophony when they heard his gun report. I had to keep the upper-hand, and at that point I could only maintain it with direct action. I pulled a capsule from my belt and, with a _hiss_ , it puffed white mist into a thick five-foot radius sphere. I was immediately on my feet and leaping onto the roof of a car.

Nhean's and his crew's eyes sprang wide-open and they screamed incoherently when they saw me emerge from the cloud and bound from the car onto the nearest goon. His gun when off, too, has I landed on him bodily.

Pain exploded in my side. It was then that I also noticed blood running down the side of my face. I was hit.

I rolled off of my target and dove behind a vehicle as they began shooting again. I pressed my back into it and inspected my trunk. The armor was compromised and I could see blood beneath the plates' flexion-overlap. The pain was terrible. I needed to retreat.

The stairwell was a straight shot from my location about twenty-five feet; I could make it. I coiled into a three-point stance, trying to stay beneath the window of the rusted pick-up truck, and launched myself towards the stairs. I would be a vertical target for them to shoot at since the pain wouldn't allow me to zigzag but the billowing of my cape and the objects between me and them would make aim challenging.

Bullets struck objects all around me as I escaped into the stairwell and raced down the stairs dripping blood. As I was nearing the bottom floor, I could hear them coming into the stairwell after me, howling like wolves harrying their prey. I had to keep the speed up if I was going to survive this. I just needed to make it somewhere I could hide; things were getting blurry.

I burst through the stairwell door into an alley. There was nothing in the alley except two dumpsters, a few air conditioning units, and two huge piles of trash; they would check those. I beelined for the fire escape and tried bounding up the a/c unit right beneath it but couldn't quite make the distance, the pain was too great. I couldn't lift my arms above my head. I tried pulling out my grapnel gun but couldn't twist to reach it.

I could hear them coming down the last flight.

Dammit.

My options were running low. Think, Batman, think.

I looked left—nothing.

I looked right—nothing.

Wait.

The monorail station! I had a safehouse about a half-mile down one of the tubes. I just needed to make it. Hang in there.

11:22PM Batman


	3. More Curious Than Cautious

10:13 PM Robin

My name is Tim Drake and, other than the fact that I'm one-fourth of a team of vigilantes, I'm a pretty typical eighteen year-old. I enjoy video games, attend college online, watch reality TV, and date when I have the time—don't really have much time, though. I mean I clearly don't live a _typical_ teenage life, being Robin and all—that takes up a lot of free time. Robin did major surgery to my life, now everything's different.

Three years ago—before I lost my mother to cancer—Bruce Wayne showed up on my doorstep out of the blue and offered to pay all of my mother's medical bills. On top of that, he wanted to pay all of my family's living expenses as well as my schooling. It was like a dream come true—a miracle. My dad broke-down crying, completely overwhelmed by Mr. Wayne's generosity. Dad had been working three jobs trying to keep us afloat with the rising medical costs but with Mr. Wayne's help, he was able to devote more time to being with my mother through her recovery. Mr. Wayne didn't ask for anything in return, either. Even when my mother passed in spite of all the treatment, Mr. Wayne continued to help me and my father financially. Before that day, I never believed in _something-for-nothing_.

Mr. Wayne changed that belief.

I discovered later that the reason that Mr. Wayne had come to our aid was because I had come to his first.

One night, my buddy was hosting the getty-to-end-all-getties ( _Getty_ is short for _get-together_ for all the old-heads that aren't cool enough to update once in a while). I'm not sure how he managed to fit so many people into that small tenement but it was one hell of a good time; half random-party and half celebration for me taking the regional-championship for my age group in the MMA circuit. I wasn't the most popular kid in school, but I sure was the most popular kid that night. Suddenly, every girl that _never_ paid me any attention on normal days treated me like a celebrity. Not sure if it was because I was labeled the best cage-fighter in the region or if it was because they pitied my bruised and swollen face. Whatever the reason, it felt good. Unfortunately, I had to cut my night short because my dad told me I needed to be home by midnight so we could go visit my mother in the hospital the next morning. Too bad too, because I really hit it off with this girl named Stephanie Brown. She was a year younger than me and was from a much nicer area of a Gotham—a Downtown girl who went to _St. Phillip Christian Academy of South Hinkley._ It was a private school with a reputation for really hot gymnasts and volleyball players; Stephanie was both.

I spent so much time talking to her, in fact, that I had lost track of time and realized that I was going to be late getting home. We traded numbers and then I split, jogging to the train station. My dad was going to be livid that I was going to be late but Stephanie's number was worth the ass-chewing. Besides, my old man was a push-over. His anger was all for show. He'd forget that he was angry at me the next day and by lunch I'd have back whatever privileges he decided to take. So I planned to call Stephanie that evening and see if she was down to see a movie or something.

I was on the station ramp by myself waiting for the train and that was making me a bit paranoid. I knew better than to go anywhere in Gotham without a crew, but none of my boys wanted to leave the party. So that left me to fend for myself. I could fight, that was no doubt. Thing is: no gangster in Gotham believed in a fair fight and neither did the urban legends. And Gotham was full of gangsters and urban legends. The news rotated nonstop stories of gangland drive-by shootings or urban legends mauling unfortunate souls. I didn't need to be a victim of either if I could help it.

I remember hearing a scraping sound coming down the stairs of the station. My heart began to bang against the inside of my ribcage. I prayed that it was some homeless guy being obnoxious and not any of the local predators. Who ran this side of town, anyway? Lennox Ave Mobsters? No, they didn't come north of the causeway. Had to be the DoLo Rollers; they were extra goonish—and for no reason. At least I could have talked my way out of drama with Lennox, I didn't know any of the DoLos. There'd be no chance of me worming my way out of anything with them. I was going to end up a bloody smear on a Gotham boulevard. Not how I hoped my night would end, especially after things went so dope at Felix's getty. I looked around the station for a quick exit. There were no others. There was only one way in and one way out.

I could hear the roar of the next train coming down the tunnel. Maybe I'd make the train before things had a chance to get messy. It was going to be tight. If I didn't make the train before they got down here, I would at least put up a fight, I wasn't going to go out like a punk. I swallowed hard.

A shadow spilled onto the ramp from the stairs. It was like nothing I'd ever seen—like something off of FEARnet. The shadow was long and barely human with horns growing out of what seemed like a head and it grew as it slithered across the platform to my feet like spilled ink. It was attached to a huge monster of a creature, all black and shadowy, blotted out by the streetlight at the top of the steps. It was like a gargoyle, staring at me hungrily. It stumbled several paces off the last step and fell to the floor with a thud. And, it just lied in heap like a dying animal.

My train arrived.

I didn't move.

I just stood there and took the whole thing in. A part of me said forget what I was seeing and get on the train, nothing good would come out of it. An even bigger part of me said investigate (Who am I to violate instinct?). I inched up to it, noticing that it was bleeding. It lifted its head as I got close, its blood dripping in a pool right beneath its barely human face.

Even though I knew better than to get closer—after all, this was how people got murdered in slasher movies—I did anyway. I've always been more curious than cautious; I had to get a better look at...

Oh. My. God.

It's Batman.

11:27PM Robin

My mouth was dry. All the moisture had gone to my hands. I opened and closed my fingers trying to dry them as I stood there figuring out what I should do next. This wasn't some awkward sighting that you pull out your camera-phone, snap a shot, and then post it online—this was the _Batman_. He was all over the TV all the time. The police said he was to be considered armed and extremely dangerous, talk shows said that he was either a lunatic or a hero, and documentaries and ghost hunters said that he was supernatural. The mayor had a special police group that did nothing but hunt the Batman. The majority of the gangbangers I knew were terrified of him even though most of them claimed they weren't. Legend had it that if you said his name five times in the mirror, he'd appear behind you and gut you. I didn't believe that last part; I never was into the whole urban legend horror thing. But this was for real and suddenly I was at the door of belief.

I kept my distance as I walked around him towards the stairs keeping him in my sight. He was crawling—dragging himself was more like it—away from the stairs painting a weak brushstroke of blood on the floor. As I reached the first step, something inside me told me that what I was about to do was wrong; I couldn't just leave him here to die. Suppose this really wasn't Batman but some poor fool in a costume (I supposed the chances of that were more likely than him actually being Batman) that was ambushed by the local crazies and he was now here in front of me dying and I just let it happen. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

I turned back around. "B-Batman?"

He didn't respond. He muttered something like _ocular_ or _article_ a few times.

"Batman? My name's Tim. Um, I can help you—give you first aid or something." No I couldn't, I didn't know anything thing about first aid.

Then I noticed more people coming near the steps. Judging by the sounds of their howling they were after Batman. Hell, they were probably the ones that injured the poor guy. Oh man, I hope they didn't try to murk me too (sigh...murk means kill).

I backed away from the staircase as six men descended onto the platform. They looked at Batman. "Oh shit! You really did get him, Bryce!" one said in a nasal voice. "You freaking banged-on the Bat!" Then they noticed me not too far to Batman's right.

The large Asian man to the rear of the group pointed at me. "What the hell is this? Get the kid the hell outta here."

Two of the six came towards me. I sized them up: I was taller and denser than they. They didn't seem to be in great shape and I didn't see any of the common scars that most fighters had. I also had the reach advantage. I could take these two by surprise but I didn't know how I was going to beat the other four. Besides, what if they were strapped (that's another way of saying _armed_ )? What was I saying? Of course they were strapped. They did, after all, shoot the guy in the bat suit. I know fighting these guys seemed beyond crazy but I doubted that they were going to let me get away alive. And, I couldn't just let them kill this guy. Ugh...dammit.

"C'mere, kid. We wanna talk to you."

I put on the game-face that I used in the moments before tournaments to try to make the other fighters feel like I wasn't intimidated when, in fact, I was shivering in my shoes. "Don't put your hands on me if you want to keep them," I said. I was so dead.

"This motherf—" the closer of the two started to say as he looked back at the others, all of them shooting him equally egotistical looks. "Kid, I will splatter your shit all over this train station. I don't give a rat's ass how old you are."

He reached out for me. I can't say that I remember exactly what happened next but I do remember kicking him and then punching the second guy before power slamming him onto the concrete. I mounted him and punched him the face several times. The other guys pulled me from their buddy and threw me to the ground. Hard.

Still full of adrenaline, I sat up immediately and found myself looking down the barrel of the big Asian guy's pistol. "Don't move," he said. "You got alot of heart, wouldn't want that to go to waste. I didn't come here to kill you, I came to kill the kook in the bat costume. Don't make me put a hole in your head, too. "

"He fudkin' brode mah nose!" the one I had mounted screamed. I must have hit more than I thought.

"Well, then you kill him. I'm gonna pull the mask off of this bat-creep." The Asian guy shrugged. "Sorry, kid. I liked you. He doesn't."

The second guy walked up to me, blood streaming down his face and a piece of bone peeking out from his nostril, and raised the gun to my head. He cursed at me for several seconds explaining that no one hits him and lives. The Asian guy told him to hurry up.

Suddenly, the entire platform went black and they all started screaming—shooting, too.

11:40PM Robin


	4. Evening, Councilman

8:21PM Nightwing

"Today's crime-fighting is brought to you by the phrase, 'S _hut your face, Batman,_ '" I deadpanned into the throat-mic before saying goodbye, "Nightwing, out," and ending the call.

My name is Dick Grayson and don't have the patience for Batman's nonsense tonight...

Tonight was supposed to be an easy, but Batman wanted to make it difficult by lecturing me about his _Fraternal Order of the Bat crap_. ' _This is my team!'_ or 'T _his is my operation_ _and you'll do things my way or you're out!'_ he'd say.

Nobody's got time for all that. Especially me, I had things to do.

In fact, all of this started because I had a plan and he just didn't like it—mostly because he didn't come up with it and was envious of my ingenuity. Last time I checked, I wasn't Robin anymore and haven't been for several years. I don't check in with Batman. That _demanding-thing_ may have worked when I was a rookie in a cape but not today, junior. I'm not a rookie, I'm a veteran just like Lord Darkness himself. I suppose with Jason being gone, I'm the only one he can push around. Oddly enough, he doesn't attempt to bully Barbara. I'm pretty damn tolerant of his tantrums, too. God knows I've been dealing with them since I was ten but eventually I get fed-up. Tonight was one of those nights. So, I just won't speak to him until I'm good and ready.

As for the plan that he didn't like, it was a simple one: be creepy, conduct surveillance on a suspect councilman, and, if the situation presented itself, have a conversation with the guy; which, of course, occurred after I had recorded about two hours of incriminating data (Corrupt officials were easily managed when you had dirt on them).

Batman probably had wanted to handle the interrogation after I had explained my hunch about the councilman. But instead of expressing himself like a normal human being, he had chosen to hassle me about it.

Whatever, I was over it. I went back to stalking my pet councilman, who had entered his home's natatorium to swim laps by the time I decided to have that conversation. I slipped in through a skylight and repelled onto the dimly lit pool deck—the ambiance setting the mood for our chat.

11:12 PM Nightwing

As he neared the wall—and before he could lift his head to turn—I snatched him up by his hair and yanked his head clear of the water. The look on his face was priceless.

"Evening, councilman," I rumbled. "I have some questions for you. And, I hope for your sake you're feeling forthcoming. There were two men in the limo with you. One was Rupert Thorne's consigliore, Abraham Rosenbaum. Who was the other?"

The councilman expelled a ton of surprised explicatives; that reaction was actually pretty common.

"I don't like repeating myself," I said, "but I will this once: There were two men in the limo with you. One was Rupert Thorne's consigliore. Who was the other?"

His expression was infantile and his face ashened. He still was in total shock.

"Answer the question before I hurt you," I demanded.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he cried, finally.

"Councilman, do yourself a favor and assume that I already know the answer to every question I ask you," I said as I drove his head underwater. I gave him about ten seconds and then let him up for air. He came up gasping. I wasn't impressed with his ability to hold his breath. "Where were we? Oh yeah, you were about to tell me who the third party was."

"I swear I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Of course you don't. So why don't you work on remembering underwater." I shoved his head beneath the surface again and kept his flailing arms under control with my free hand. After about fifteen seconds, and about a gallon of water splashed on me, I let him surface.

"Looks like you're getting short on breath, councilman. So help me help you. Who was," I paused for affect and lowered my voice an octave, "the third person."

"Please," he struggled to say through a fit of coughing and gasping, "they'll do terrible things to me if I don't cooperate with them, probably even kill me!"

"Councilman, I'm the one trying to drown you," I said feigning indignation. "Now, let me make this clear to you: You fear Rupert Thorne and Rupert Thorne fears me. Simple logic should tell you that protecting his interests is not in your best interests. So, I'm going to ask you again: Who was the third person?"

"Please! You have to believe—"

"Wrong answer." I shoved his head beneath the surface for a third time.

He thrashed like a marlin on a hook, splashing water everywhere. Good thing my armor and the camo-paint on my face were water-resistant. My hair on the other hand was drenched and that was going to make going back out into the unforgiveable Gotham winter more terrible than it already was. Perhaps, having the cowl did have its advantages even if it did wreak havoc on my peripheral vision and spatial awareness. I won't mention that to Batman—ever. Only just recently did he stop pestering me about not wearing one.

11:27PM Nightwing

Just then, Oracle's voice chimed on the net, "Nightwing?"

"I'm a bit busy."

"Unless you're saving orphaned children from a burning building, I don't have time for busy."

"What's the problem?" My voice was a bit strained as I fought to keep position over-top of the councilman.

"Batman's beacon just went off!"

"And?"

" _And_ , I think he's hurt!"

"How hurt?"

"Crap, I don't know! Let me roll over there in my wheelchair and check it out for you—gotta put on my Batgirl costume first!"

"When you put it like that—"

"Drop whatever you're doing and get your ass over there!"

Yikes—I pissed her off. "Okay. Okay. I'm on my way." I was definitely going to be getting the cold shoulder for a while for sure.

Oh crap! I almost forgot about the councilman. He was still moving so he hadn't drowned yet but he was close. I pulled him up by his hair and he broke the surface heaving for air. I allowed him to grab hold of the wall and he rested his cheek against it.

"Councilman." My face was only inches from his. He looked up at me with glassy eyes. "I'm going to give you time to remember who the third person was." I reached into my utility belt and pulled the pin on a smoke grenade. With a _pop-hiss_ , I was instantly shrouded by smoke. "I hope for your sake your answer will be to my liking."

He started crying.

And like that— _poof—_ I disappeared.

Grapnel guns are the best. So are councilmen's towels. Because, you know, wet hair…


	5. We'll Be Seeing You Around, Tim

11:35PM Nightwing

Covering the distance between Batman and I didn't take long, perhaps ten minutes. Oracle had pinpointed his location to an eastern-central monorail station; however, she had no intel on the happenings inside. The station was underground and the UAV couldn't get low enough to allow the camera a solid feed. I was going in blind—on the bright side of things, I was able to follow Batman's vitals in real time. I was surprised to discover that the big jerk had an actual heartbeat—a human one too!

Since we couldn't discern the situation, I opted to enter by way of the rail tube. I didn't want to walk through the front door and get smacked in the face by whatever managed to bring the Bat down. No use in both of us biting off more than we could chew. I held a pace just above a jog as I made my way through the pitch black tube. The micro-frame nightvision integrated into my head-piece aided tremendously in keeping me from stepping into any potholes. The pace was manageable, not competition-fast and not Department of Motor Vehicles slow. When the fighting broke out—and would because…well…this is Gotham—I wanted to be warmed up, not wore out.

I could feel a shudder in the ground. A shudder turned into a rumble, a rumble into a tremor, and a tremor into an angry roar. Then there was light. Then a train hurtled around the corner and screamed past me. I pressed myself into the wall, the train missing me by an inch or two. If I didn't make frequent use of the tubes, I would have felt like I survived by the skin of my teeth. But, I tended to do this often—I was used to it.

After a few more minutes of running, I came upon the opening to the dimly lit station. It was a vague oval shape with the rail splitting the difference long-ways and a set of stairs on either short side. To my right, in between me and the stairs were seven even men: A dark-haired teenaged male being held at gunpoint, a fat Asian guy, and a mix of others; two of the men were bleeding pretty good. Oh yeah…and Batman, he was laying on the floor in a pool of blood. He really was hurt.

I stopped and scanned the platform. Between me and the group were a series of cinderblock stanchions, several trash cans, two benches, and a vintage newspaper dispenser. Environment equaled cover when the shooting starts. Now, I just needed to get these lights out.

"Oracle, I need the junction that controls the lights on this platform. Help a guy out?"

"Sit tight while I look at the blueprint."

I began humming the theme to Jeopardy into the receiver as I crept towards the platform. I wasn't sure if the mic could transmit the vibration of the hum into a melody on the other end considering the throat-mics didn't actually use sound to transmit.

Don't think I won't punch you in the throat when you get back here," she said sounding vaguely distracted. Apparently, the throat-mic could produce a melody. Learn something new every day.

"Give me an exact position," she instructed.

I looked up at a sign above the tube. Its alpha-numeric code indicated position and direction. "I'm at the mouth of the south tube looking northeast."

"Look to your left about the nine-thirty to the ten o'clock position. You'll see a four-by-four foot-ish box. Should have a green band around the input."

"I see it."

"Open it and throw the switch, the lights should go out."

"Sweet. You're a peach, you know that right?"

"Focus, please. Batman's vitals indicate that he's losing a lot of blood."

I ran over to it, slung open the door, and pulled the switch. With a _whur_ the lights blinked out of existence.

11:40PM Nightwing

The men began to holler as sudden darkness fell. I used it cover my exit from the rail channel and my zipping across the platform to take cover behind a stanchion.

"Ya know, Babs, we should do dinner this week. I found an excellent comedy restaurant in Bludhaven."

"Nightwing," she groaned, "can you take this seriously?"

"Oh, I'm taking it seriously, I'm just multitasking—schedule a date and save Batman's ass. Nightwing for the win."

"Less scheduling and more saving…"

I pulled a strobe light from my utility belt and placed it on the ground in the group's immediate field of view, keying its remote as I zipped off to the left. Bluish-white light pulsed in the cavernous station, a vertigo-inducing cascade of bright and dark. Each pulse highlighted me as I moved. They saw me, then they didn't.

"What the hell is that!" one of them screamed.

They opened fire towards rail channel, their heartbeats rising. I pressed myself against a stanchion as bullets whizzed and ricocheted all around.

"Nightwing," Oracle said, "are you okay?"

"Yup. Just a little busy getting shot at while trying to save my favorite darkness-in-distress. They can't get a bead on me, though."

"Is he okay? His vitals look erratic."

"Oracle, I can't hear you over the gunshots and screaming," I said turning off my micro-frames. "I'll get back to you." The pulses were irritating the nightvision; the muzzle flashes didn't help either. Besides, it was about to get a lot brighter.

I pulled a flashbang from my utility belt and slung it across the platform. It skipped twice and then _click-clack-clacked_ to a stop before detonating. The me screamed like girls; the teenager buckled with his hands cupping his ears. Just a little collateral, he'd be okay.

I rushed out of cover, aiming for the nearest criminal. He was a quarterback and I was linerbacker in a full-blown sprint to crush his soul. There was a bench in between us; I cleared with it with a round-off and entered a backhand handspring. Two revolutions later, my feet were drilling through his chest. He buckled and flopped to the ground uncontesting my momentum. The move was totally impractical, but it fricking worked.

From the criminals' perspective, it was complete anarchy. The constant flashing of lights, the pyrotechnic, and my phantasmal presence disappearing and reappearing closer and closer with each pulse was confusing and terrifying. Their buddy was standing one second and on his back the next with me rolling across the ground towards the next thug.

I was on my feet again and accelerating in three steps towards the next party-goer. He raised his gun and I leapt, flattening out horizontal just beneath his aim. The criminal mashed the trigger several times, the bullets whizzed over and under me. I managed a lucky shot with my toe, getting under his arm and smacking him in the lips with the armor of my boot. He fell back. I hit the ground shoulders first and sprung to my feet with a kip-up, hitting the strobe's remote. The room went black. I keyed my micro-frames and assessed the fight. Four more to go.

They began to back away towards the what little light offered by the stairs exiting the station. "What the hell are you?" one screamed.

My answer: I scooped up his injured friend's gun and beamed it like a boomerang at the screamer's face, catching him cleanly in the mouth. Without even looking, I knew the damage was unholy. There was going be a few Gotham dentists eating well.

The other three turned tail and ran for the stairs.

I disconnected my escrima sticks from their charge-port just behind each shoulder in my jump-pack. I slung one at the feet of the last guy in the train of escapees—the overweight Asian guy—and tripped him. He hit the ground with a _thud_ , smacking his forehead against the bottom step. The two paid him no regard and left him to his fate as the sprinted up the steps.

Casually, I walked over to him spinning my other escrima stick in my hand. I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully as I passed Batman, glancing down for a second at him and the teenager.

"Oh jeez, please, don't kill me!" the Asian man said rolling over. He had a nasty little cut above his eye from kissing the concrete. I came into the light and his eyes were clueless. I toggled a switch on my weapon and the business end began to arc with electricity. "Please, I beg you! Please don't kill me!"

Insert typical Bat-phrase: "There are worse things than death," I said, jabbing the live end of the stick into his gut. The taser started the Asian man convulsing. I drew the weapon away and he went limp, drooling on himself.

I looked back. The teenager was still there next to Batman. The kid had protected him from the thugs. I was impressed to say the least.

"Oracle?" I said turning off the taser and reseating the escrima.

"Go, Nightwing."

"I'm going to carry Batman into the rail tube. There's a safehouse about a half-a-mile from here. Gonna be a bit of an adventure with the occasional training whipping past, but I'll figure it out."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Not sure." I scooped up my loose escrima and reseated it, too. "I'll work it out when I get there."

Just then I heard sirens. "That's just swell," I said.

"What's the matter, now, Nightwing?"

"GCPD are on their way."

"Tell you what, the batmobile isn't far from you. I'll drive past the police and they'll chase _it_ and leave you alone. That should give you time to get Batman clear."

You know what? Babs was damn brilliant. "Great idea," I replied.

I approached Batman, who was still lying unconscious and bleeding with the kid kneeling next to him.

All the kid could make out was my silhouette. So, I turned off my voice synthesizer—no need to spook him—and asked, "You okay, kid?"

"W-what?"

"I asked you if you were okay. You're not hurt are you?"

"N-no."

I knelt down and checked Batman's breathing. It was shallow but steady; he was in shock. I needed to check his wounds, but I couldn't do it here. I'd have to peel off his armor, plus I needed Alfred's help treating him. That required me to get him off the platform.

I grabbed a chunk of armor in each hand and hoisted Batman up, slinging him over my shoulder, grunting a little. He was only four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier but I never realized how hefty he was until I had to carry his big ass.

The kid rose with me, his face covered with confusion.

"Thanks, kid. The Bat's really grateful for what you did here today."

"I—uh—no problem." He didn't sound too sure. "Is he really Batman?"

"I don't think I caught your name."

"Tim…"

"You got a last name, Tim?"

"Drake. Tim Drake."

"We'll be seeing you around, Tim Drake," I said disappearing to the inky blackness with the Bat over my shoulder. "Be safe out there."

11:50 PM Nightwing


	6. Not While I Live and Breathe

7:52 PM Alfred. Six days later.

I was standing at the rear galley of the aircraft preparing refreshments for Bruce when Dick called. Dick was his usual delightful self. Bruce, however, was stormy and distant.

"Bruce!" Dick said warmly. "What's up, big guy? You're looking yourself. How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Bruce replied hollowly. How I missed the vibrant tone of his voice. He had colorful highs and beautiful lows, and he sang angelically with his mother during the Christmas holidays—all that ended with their death. Although, his former voice did manifest from time-to-time when he spoke with strangers and media—only as a disguise though. For those of us whom he interacted with regularly, he used a drab, monotone shell of his former voice.

Alas, his voice was not the only thing drab and monotone about Bruce. The way he sat there, an emotionally gray statue against a cream and maroon interior, staring out of the window of the third row seat of his private jet into the vast endlessness of the Atlantic Ocean reminded me of his childhood. He would sit in the window sill of his bedroom and stare outside for hours. When I would try to rouse him, it would often take considerable energy to reach him before he would respond, it was as if his soul would leave his body. Even now, he had the same thousand-yard stare from his youth. It pained me to see him that way.

Bruce touched the _answer_ icon and Master Dick's face—outlined with a thin bat-shape in preparation to apply his black camo-paint for a reckless romp through the town as Nightwing—and his shoulders materialized onto the screen of the display on the back of the seat in front of Bruce.

"How was Brussels?" Dick asked.

"Cold."

"When are you going to be back?"

"Soon."

"So we're going to be _monosyllabic_ , huh?" Dick realized that Bruce was feeling exceptionally anti-social. Dick was used to it, however; fifteen years had taught him not to be horribly fazed by it. "Okay, I'll play your stupid little game. Ask me a pertinent question so I can respond in one word."

"No."

"Guess it's safe to say the surgeries didn't improve your social skills."

Bruce didn't turn his attention towards Dick and continued to stare out of the window.

Dick continued, "The doctors did improve your looks, though. That cut on the side of your face is barely even visible. The plastic surgeon did a great job. We should bring him on as staff."

"Her…"

"Whatever." Dick waved a dismissing hand into the camera before smiling devilishly. "Think about it—a _bat-doctor_."

Bruce wasn't amused.

"Seriously, though, you should go see that doctor more often, she did a good job nearest I can tell. The last couple surgeons didn't _wow_ me. Maybe you should stick with her for the next couple improvements before moving on to a new one."

When visibly injured, both Bruce and Dick would fly overseas to consult with foreign plastic surgeons to have their scars repaired. In this specific case, Bruce had received a laceration on his cheek from a ricocheting bullet and Bruce Wayne couldn't viably explain how he would have received such an injury without raising suspicion. In spite of how aloof Dick Grayson and how evasive Bruce Wayne appeared to the media, their likenesses were sure to pop up in periodical somewhere and they could ill-afford wounds unlikely possessed by a Billionaire playboy and his ward turned adopted son—turned poster-child for Wayne Enterprises.

Personally, I thought they were absurdly idiotic for making a social-outing of attacking dangerous criminals and maniacs who mostly considered life to have no value. Bruce and Dick acted as though they're actions had no consequences and it irritated me to hear Dick speak of plastic surgery as yet another form of entertainment or of validation for their _vigilantous_ activities.

"Master Dick, please don't encourage Master Bruce to continue this behavior," I asserted finally. "Cosmetic surgery should not be used as an enabler to continue the insanity that you and he involve yourselves in."

"Pfft." Dick's expression slanted. "Says the guy who acted as a bullet shield for the British Crown."

Dick Grayson graduated from Gotham State University with a bachelor's degree in sarcasm and a minor in witty retorts. I, however, was armed with a marathon of juvenile wit to counter his offensive. "It was either that or dress up as my favorite animal," I said as I placed a cup of coffee on Bruce's side table. "Do you think the underworld fears wallabies?"

"You know, Alfred, I'm not sure whether you're being serious or sarcastic."

"World's greatest detectives, indeed." I returned to the galley and listened to them continue their needless banter.

Dick returned his attention to Bruce. "Anyway—"

Bruce continued to stare at nothing through the window. "Are we done?"

"If we were done, I would have said, 'Okay, Bruce, I'll talk to you when you get back.' So no, we're not done."

"Please get to the point, then. I have matters to attend."

Dick's voice became instantly indignant. "On a transatlantic flight? No you don't. Don't rush me off the phone." There was a moment of tense silence, then Dick continued in spite of it, "Anyway, you need to check this kid out when you get back. He's a real stud."

"What kid?"

"The one that saved your life."

"Since it was the kid who saved my life—and not you—you can't hold it over my head."

"I wouldn't have to if you did this thing called 'being appreciative'. I know how difficult it is for you. And what does that have to do with what I'm talking about right now?"

"Thank you, Nightwing, for doing your job a couple weeks ago."

Dick's eyes became serpentine and his visage became ever larger on the screen. "How about all those other times?"

Bruce looked at Dick firmly. "What other times?"

"Do I need to start keeping a log?"

Bruce's face emptied and he returned to staring out of the window. "What's the kid's name?"

"Finally," Dick said sitting back from the screen. "Damn, you're difficult."

"His name, Dick."

"Timothy Drake."

"And, what makes him such a stud?"

"Well, for starters, he's the regional cruiserweight champion for the New Jersey State Youth MMA Association. Me and Babs watched a couple of his fights, he's quite the scrapper."

"What's your point?"

"My point is: It makes sense why he was able to take down two armed thugs, saving your ass before I arrived. And where I'm going with is: His family is kinda of in a bind. His mother's hospitalized battling cancer and his father is struggling to make ends meet. Despite all that, Tim seems to be doing decently in school. Way I see it, since he helped you, you should help him."

The corners of Bruce's mouth turned down. "I suppose you're right, Dick," he said nodding faintly.

"Pause." Dick derailed the conversation. "What was that?"

Bruce turned toward the screen—first his eyes then his head. If looks could kill, we'd have been attending Dick's memorial service upon our arrival. "I said: You are right…Dick."

The cabin was meet with tense silence again as they engaged in a stare-down…over a video conference call. Of all the bloody preposterous bollocks that can be done with technology these days, dismal video silent-treatments were among the most childish ridiculousness that any two _grown_ men—vigilantes notwithstanding—could engage in. Right shameful and absurd if you asked me.

"I'm impressed," Dick said giving in, "you actually made a joke. And, on the coattails of saying I was right. Nightwing for the win."

"Are we done?" Bruce asked resuming his lookout through the window.

"Not while I still live and breathe," Dick said as he fumbled with the camera. "I'll talk to you later, cupcake." His face winked out of existence.

"Master Bruce," I said as I approached to check the integrity of his coffee, he hadn't so much as looked at it, let alone touched it, "if I didn't know any better, I would think that you despise your adopted son's very presence and his counsel."

"I don't _despise_ him, Alfred. He's just an overzealous rebel and when I give him an inch, he takes a mile."

"Sounds like someone else I know in the Wayne household." My finger shot straight up and I wobbled my head to-and-fro theatrically, "' _Alfred, this place is a mausoleum and I'm leaving. Alfred, I won't standby idly and watch more people killed. Alfred, this costume isn't ridiculous, it's necessary for the persona._ '"

Bruce turned in his seat finally, coming to life. "Dick's everything I never could be. He experienced the same trauma but copes so much better. I don't know why he wants to be Nightwing, he could lead a normal life. I gave him the Robin-persona because without it, he would have continued on the reckless path to crime he started on as a teenager. But now, he's outgrown Robin and he's…he's _Nightwing_."

"And you resent him for it?"

Bruce's face twisted. "No—I appreciate everything he does. In a different world, he'd still be a legend. But, he'd be a legendary _somebody-important_ , not a legendary vigilante."

"So we are bloody _legendary_ now are we?"

Bruce's mouth became a thin line. "You know what I mean."

"No, I'm not quite following you, sir. I seem to have become right hung-up on the legendary portion of your statement."

"I was talking about Dick, Alfred."

"Oh yes—him."

"Your sarcasm is unwelcomed."

"Well, sir, I shall dispense with it then. Moving on from claims of legend and back to Dick Grayson: Do you want him around or not?"

"Of course, I do, Alfred. I practically raised him. I can't imagine doing this without him."

"You have a profound way of showing it, sir. Mother Theresa herself would be envious of your empathy."

"Good grief, Alfred." The sincerity and concern drained from Bruce's face. "I just got out of surgery six hours ago. My face and side hurt. I'm in no mood to talk, much less, go back-and-forth with Nightwing."

It was clear he had no intent of drinking his coffee so I began clearing the table. "But you do it so well. It's like a sitcom…but with costumes and madmen. Of course, when I say madmen, I'm referring to the criminals, sir."

Bruce's expression was dubious. "Either way, I'm not in the mood."

"I suppose communicating that to Master Dick would be a crime against humanity."

"He didn't get the hint."

"Because you take hints so well, sir," I said dropping the dishes into the sink for effect. "On second thought, communicating how you were feeling would have required you to show weakness—or humanity. Forbid the chance of either; the world might end. Mercy me."

"Alfred," Bruce asserted over his shoulder, "are we done?"

"In the words of Nightwing: _Not while I live and breathe_ …"


	7. The Wayne Foundation

4:02 PM Robin. Two weeks after the incident.

Wednesdays were the worst—and by worst, I meaning _playing soccer with a bowling ball_ worst (Yeah, just take a moment to visualize that—that's where I'm at right about now). Some people give Wednesdays credit, calling it hump day. Yeah, I was getting humped alright, and Wednesday wasn't even calling me the next day.

It was like the cosmos made fun of me on Wednesdays. I managed to get survive the hazing of Monday and Tuesday but then their really mean and ugly older brothers Wednesday and Thursday showed up like, "WHAT?!" I equate it to being lost in the jungle and finding my way out, only to find myself standing on the bank of a river infested with a gazillion hungry alligators…and I'm wearing lamb-chop scented cologne. By the time I climb out of the water, in what's left of my clothes—bite marks notwithstanding—I still had homework to do; a butt-load of physics and analytic geometry homework plus I had to write an essay for English.

Sigh. English teachers were fascists.

Then the doorbell rang.

"I got it!" I yelled, jumping up and racing for the stairs. I needed a break from factoring and domains and ranges.

Domains and ranges were fascists, too.

I slid down the railing and landed like a boss; the speed was disappointing but it was always more fun than walking.

"Tim, for the last time, stop jumping on the rail! It's antique!" Dad yelled from the kitchen. He always knew when I was sliding because he didn't hear the old steps moan.

I bowed to my audience—of no one—and I gave my dismount a ten, laughing to myself as I pulled the door open. My jaw dropped and I slammed the door shut. Okay, there's no way that that's Bruce Wayne on my porch. Billionaires don't come onto this block, much less to my house. When I open this door again, it's gonna be some door-to-door vacuum salesman.

I opened the door again.

Mr. Wayne's eyebrow rose and so did a welcoming hand. "Hi. My name is—"

"Bruce Wayne! Holy crap!" I couldn't believe it. I mean, what were the chances. I saw Batman and Nightwing (well I suppose they could have just been a bunch of maniacs in costumes but whatever) and then Bruce Wayne all in just one month. I should have been playing the lottery…well, my dad should have been since I wasn't old enough.

Mr. Wayne smiled, "Yes, I'm Bruce Wayne. I see that you've heard of me."

"Are you kidding? You're, like, one of the richest people in the galaxy!"

The guy was huge—much bigger than he looked on TV. He must've been, like, six-foot-three or six-foot-four and yoked—even in the grey suit and purple tie that he was wearing. I guessed when you have that kind of money, you can afford to be at the gym all day long.

"Tim," my dad yelled from the kitchen, "who's at the door?"

"It's Bruce Wayne, Dad!" I yelled back. I smiled at Mr. Wayne, he smiled back at me.

"Seriously, who's at the door?"

"Dad, I'm as serious as a hole in the head, it's Bruce Wayne! Come see for yourself!"

A few seconds later, my dad came down the hallway to the door and stopped short when he saw our visitor. "Holy crap, it is Bruce Wayne." He paused and inspected Mr. Wayne and then said finally, "What's he doing here?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Ask him," I thrusted a thumb at Mr. Wayne, "he's right here."

Dad approached suspiciously, not completely convinced that Mr. Wayne was actually standing on our doorstep. "Are you—are you lost Mr. Wayne?"

Mr. Wayne slid a hand into his pocket. "No—no, I'm not lost. I'm here deliberately as a matter of fact."

Cue the awkward silence…

I looked at him, he looked at me, I looked at my dad, my dad looked at me, Mr. Wayne looked at my dad, and my dad looked at Mr. Wayne. Then we repeated, awkwardly. Way-to-go, Drake-family.

Mr. Wayne broke the awkwardness, "May I come in?" I'm sure he was used to these kind of meetings.

Dad suddenly came to life. "Oh, crap, yeah. Please, come in. Where are my manners? I'm sorry for being rude, we don't get celebrities very often."

"You mean _ever_ ," I said trying to keep it real. Dad gave me a hard look.

"Can I offer you anything to drink?" he asked ushering Mr. Wayne down the hallway towards the kitchen. "I've got water, soda, beer. Can I interest you in anything?"

"No, I'm quite alright, Mr. Drake," Mr. Wayne said remaining at the door and not following.

Dad and I looked at each other thinking the exact same thing: _Bruce Wayne knew my dad's name_! Mr. Wayne didn't seem to notice our surprise or at least he pretended that he didn't notice. He just looked around at pictures that my mom had hanging on the walls and all of her decorations and knick-knacks.

"Please excuse the mess, Mr. Wayne—"

"Please, just call me Bruce."

Dad and I looked at each other again.

"Mr. Drake to spare you the awkwardness, I'll just get straight to the point. The two of you may know that I'm the proprietor of the Wayne Foundation which is a nonprofit organization that was instituted to help citizens in need. Not to insert myself into your family's affairs, but I'd like to extend the service of the Wayne Foundation to your family."

My dad's brow wrinkled with suspicion. "Well, that's mighty nice of you Mr. Wayne—"

"Bruce," Mr. Wayne corrected.

"Uh—Bruce—but I'm not one to take money from people."

"Well then, I have to apologize, Mr. Drake."

"No—no, Bruce. I appreciate your generosity—"

Mr. Wayne cut dad off again, "I've already settled Mrs. Drake's medical accounts."

"What?" Dad asked practically choking on his words. "My wife's? Which ones?"

"All of them," Mr. Wayne deadpanned. "Forever."

"What?" Even though Mr. Wayne spoke English, my dad clearly didn't understand what he was saying…

"I'm also here to deliver the deed to your new home as well as the keys." Mr. Wayne drew his hand from his pocket and dangled them between us.

"What?"

Dad was really making a poor showing with all the 'whats' he kept dropping.

Dad stared into Mr. Wayne's face bewildered. Then he looked at me—like I had an answer to this…I was just the guy who opened the door—and back to Mr. Wayne and then out into the street as if someone outside had an answer.

"I have to—" Dad started and then stopped. "Is this some kinda joke? You got a camera crew with you?"

Mr. Wayne laughed, "No—no, I assure you, Mr. Drake, this is no joke nor are you the subject of reality TV. I shook the paparazzi about two subdivions ago."

Dad looked at Mr. Wayne even deeper now.

Mr. Wayne jingled the keys. "Go on, Mr. Drake. Take them, they're yours. You know what?" Mr. Wayne drew a folded sheet of paper from inside of his jacket, unfolded it, and showed it to both of us. "Here is the deed. Notice your name is on it and that it's notarized."

Dad leaned in to inspect it.

"See? No gimmicks."

"Dad," I said as soon as I finished reading it. "Is that real?"

Dad's brow softened, "I—uh—yeah. I—uh—I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, sir," Mr. Wayne said with a smile.

Dad ran his hand through his hair seemingly stressed. "What do want in return?"

"Mr. Drake, the Wayne Foundation asks for nothing in return. Again, its sole purpose is to aid Gothamites in need. I would like to further extend an invitation for you and your son, Tim, to ride with me in my limousine so that I can show the two of you your new home." He extended his arm towards his limo waiting on the side of the street; by now, some of the neighbors were nosily beginning to gather in their porches trying to figure out who rated a limo. "Will you be accompanying me?"

I didn't hesitate. "Hell yeah! Lemme get my phone!" I was going to be the talk of the town at school tomorrow! "Be right back!"

"Wait." Dad's hand shot up. "Hold on just a second. What's going on here?"

I stopped two steps up the stairs and Mr. Wayne's smile was instantly replaced with a confused expression.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Drake?" he asked.

"No one—especially Gotham's wealthiest playboy—just shows up on the doorstep offering up money." Suspicion dripped from Dad's mouth. "What's going on here? Because, if this is some kind of joke…it's not _funny_."

"Mr. Drake," Mr. Wayne started, inserting his key-hand into the pocket of his slacks, "my father, Thomas Wayne before his murder, established the Wayne Foundation to support those in need. I'm here for that reason and no other. I apologize if you feel slighted by me going behind your back and paying your accounts—I _am_ notoriously impulsive.

"Now, I'd be honored if you and your son would accompany me to your new house. I think you'll be pleased. However, if you would prefer to go on your own, I understand. Although, I did have an ulterior motive for the car ride: My intent was to use that time to discuss with you and your son about his continued education and the scholarship options that Wayne Enterprises offers for students of Tim's aptitude. What do you say?" Mr. Wayne smiled huge but there was something telling about his eyes, they didn't compliment his smile. I couldn't quite place it. He didn't seem insincere so I was all for it.

"I say, _hell yeah_!" I yelled. "C'mon, Dad, get it together!"

"That's the spirit, Tim." Mr. Wayne raised a brow towards my dad. "Mr. Drake?"

Dad watched me sprint up the stairs. "Uh—sure. Let me grab my coat. Tim, wear a coat!"

"Yes sir!"

"Excellent. I will be waiting in the car," I heard Mr. Wayne say as I came back to the stairs. "Please, take your time. We're in no rush," he finished as he opened the front door and returned to the waiting vehicle.


	8. A Force Multiplier

What's up, fellow Batman fans! I'm back and going to finish Bats Of A Leather! Sorry for the long delay. I did my masters degree, and I wrote and published a novel called Death Before Dishonor (by Kenny Hyman in case you want to check it out), both of which took up a lot of my writing juice. But, now it's time to get back to this Batman stuff - my first love. Let's get it!

* * *

8:57 AM Nightwing. Three weeks after the incident.

It was a typical Tuesday morning at the Wayne Enterprises headquarters.

The CEO, Lucius Fox, had called me in to meet with a consultant from a computer hardware manufacturer, called TechTree, based out of Switzerland to discuss a joint venture between Wayne Enterprises and TechTree. Bruce had installed me as his spokesperson and poster-child, saying that Dick Grayson was who everyone wanted to be—so duty called. I was the pleasant face of the Wayne family while he played the part of illusive playboy.

I was really unsure whether I should have felt honored or downright used.

I made every effort not to get up from my desk. I was sore from attacking a group associated with the mob only a couple hours earlier. I pretended to be hungover. I wore my yellow tie loose, the top button of my white collar undone, my sleeves rolled up two cuffs, and my black suit jacket thrown over a chair in the corner. To complete the look, I put gel in my hair to give it volume, but I didn't tidy it.

The consultant was rambling about something or other, but I was paying little attention. I feigned concern by keeping my eyes on him. Then the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID; it was my executive assistant. I put my index finger in the air stopping the consultant, and I answered it.

"Mr. Grayson?" she said in her raspy voice.

"Yes?" I said trying to sound alive.

"Mr. Wayne is here…" she said with her voice dropping an octave, "with an army…" it dropped one more time, "of women."

"Sounds about right," I replied indignantly.

Why was he awake? He said that he was going to sleep until at least noon. What was he up to?

"Improperly dressed women, I might add," my assistant finished finally.

"He's a paradigm-breaker, Shannon," I said pressing the thumb and index finger of my left hand into the bridge of my nose. "See him in."

Bruce was glowing when he came in, wearing a $500 pair of shades, a custom designed black overcoat with silver buttons on top of a white collared shirt and an electric blue tie, grey slacks, and his favorite chocolate brown dress shoes.

"Dick! Lucius!"

And, he was being loud—little regard for my pounding head. At least he left the entourage in the waiting area to keep Shannon company—she wasn't pleased, I'm sure. Not that that mattered to Bruce, he didn't care for Shannon.

"Bruce," I nodded, my eyes were suspicious.

"Mr. Wayne," Lucius said cordially, half turning in his chair. "Odd seeing you _awake_ at this hour. Early rising today?"

"Are you kidding, Lucius? We haven't even slept yet. We were all on our way to the after-party for the after-party."

Since we had company, I tried to rein Bruce in before he got out of hand. "Bruce—"

But he was already out of hand.

He asked, "Who's your friend?"

"This is Donal Rolfson," I said, presenting him with a hand and then falling back into my chair. "He's the financial consultant for TechTree, an innovative Swiss computer hardware company. He's here—"

Bruce waved a hand in the air. "Dick, you're using big words again."

"Right." I pursed my lips. Bruce was playing 'dumb rich–guy' today; he was definitely up to something.

Lucius shot me a look. He had the same feeling I did. "Mr. Rolfson, this is Mr. Grayson's adoptive father and the owner of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne."

The consultant hopped to his feet and spoke in his heavy accent, "It's a real pleasure, Mr. Wayne. We at TechTree are really looking forward to doing business with your firm, sir."

"Sure, whatever," Bruce said, towering over the man. "Just make sure it keeps depositing money in my account, so I can keep depositing it on the bodies of the best strippers Brazil has to offer." Bruce's smile widened. "I love Brazil. I just can't spend enough money.

"You know what, Dick, I never actually looked out of the windows at the skyline," Bruce said, pushing his way over to the window to my right. "This would be an excellent place to have a party. I mean, the office is big enough."

The consultant looked at me awkwardly. Surely, he had heard the media accounts of Bruce Wayne, but I'm sure it was something entirely different to behold in person, especially since you were likely to see a completely different Bruce Wayne than the tabloids expressed. Of course, you could meet a completely different Bruce Wayne from night-to-night.

"Hey, Dick," he said, spinning around with his cell phone in his hand, "you've got to see the photos from last night. Every one of these girls were naked. Wow."

Correction: He was being 'douche-bag' Bruce today.

He walked back to my desk and lowered the phone in front of my face. My mouth became a thin line.

"I know!" Bruce said excitedly. "Amazing, huh?"

Lucius was giving the _we-should-probably-leave_ eye. I nodded agreeably. "You gentlemen wouldn't mind giving us a moment, would you?"

Bruce laughed, waving the phone. "Oh, we're going to need more than a moment to go through all these pictures."

"Mr. Rolfson, if you would please come with me." Lucius stood to his feet, and the consultant followed. "We'll go get some coffee while Mr. Wayne and Mr. Grayson take a moment for family time. Can I interest you in a Peruvian blend?"

The consultant looked up at Bruce who was at least a full head taller. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Wayne."

"It's all mine, Donnie." He replied, following the men to the door. "Hey Lucius, you should introduce yourself to one of my lady-friends named Luscious. Your names are so similar that she may just give it up on the first date." Bruce winked.

"No thank you, Mr. Wayne. I'm still happily married."

" _Married_ and _happy_ don't belong in the same sentence, Lucius," Bruce said fiendishly and shut the door behind them. He turned, and it was as if he was, all of a sudden, a different person. His face was a thunderstorm, and his eyes were polar. His outfit suddenly didn't agree with his demeanor. Bruce had become the person that I recognized.

"You want to explain this?" he demanded, raising his phone in the air from across the room.

"You spying on me now?" I asked, sounding a little betrayed. It wasn't nude pictures that he showed me—that was just a cover to clear the room, hence 'douche-bag' Bruce. What he showed me was an email chain between me and the teenager that saved his life.

"Why are you communicating with the Drake-boy?"

"I didn't know that I wasn't allowed, Bruce."

The muscles in his jaw flexed. "Why is _Nightwing_ communicating with him?"

"You already know the answer. You read the emails."

"We discussed this in the past. No one else is getting involved. But, here you are communicating with the boy. Did you not listen when we discussed this?"

"No, I listened."

"You just don't care," Bruce retorted, approaching the desk again from the door.

"No—I don't agree."

"I never asked you if you agreed."

"This kid is remarkable, Bruce. He's got the heart of a lion. We'd be stupid not to consider it."

"I'd be stupid to consider _it_ all."

"He could help us.

Bruce's face wrinkled. "I don't need help."

"So, it's just _you_ now?"

"It always has been," he deadpanned.

I shifted in my seat, becoming visibly frustrated. "Then what am I?"

"A force-multiplier." His face was stone.

"A force-multiplier?"

"I didn't stutter."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I was trying in earnest not to raise my voice, and Bruce didn't say anything in return. "Is Barbara a force-multiplier too? How about Jason—was he a force-multiplier?"

"No," he said deliberately, his eyes focusing hard and looking deep into me. "They are cautionary tales. They are proof that I'm the only one who can walk this path."

"Oh, _stop_ ," I aspirated, choking the air between us with my hands as if the air were solid, "with that self-righteous mumbo-jumbo."

"It's my path to walk—" he started again, but I leaped in to cut him off.

"I've walked this path every day since you revealed to me that you were…," I paused realizing that I was starting to get loud. "Since you revealed to me that you were Batman. I've been walking this path since I was sixteen. I've been walking this path since I became Robin when I was seventeen. I committed myself to this path, even more, when I became Nightwing. You can't just deny the sacrifices I've made. I've walked this path for nearly five years. I've walked this path to avenge my parents' death and fight corruption just like you. And, you want to call me a mere _force-multiplier_?" I flicked the air with my hand. "Get out of here with that nonsense. I don't believe that."

Bruce's face hadn't changed, it was still stone. "You don't have to believe it; you just need to do what I tell you."

"Uh-uh. That's not how this game gets played anymore. I don't play by your rules. I'm your teammate, not your minion. If you got a problem with something I'm doing—fine. But don't think you're going to tell me what I am and not going to do."

"You either do what I say or your out."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I don't make threats…"

"Unlike the rest of Gotham, I'm not scared of you, Bruce. So, you can't intimidate me into falling into line like a good little soldier. I've made up my mind already, and the Drake-kid will be perfect. That's one more fighter striking from the shadows."

"I don't need another one."

"We fight better as a team, Bruce. We cover more ground. We're more effective. And by _we_ , I don't mean you and I—just _we_ in general. So, Robin needs to bring the fight to Gotham again. We need _R_ 's spray-painted on the walls of alleys again. That's Drake…"

"If I find out that you make contact with him again, Nightwing—"

"Too late. I've already started indoctrinating him much the same way I had started indoctrinating Babs."

Creases began to fill his face like fissures in stone. I actually made Bruce angry. I hadn't made him angry in years. Usually, it was me that would get angry because he'd flat out ignore me during debates.

Not this time, this time I won the anger game.

"In fact, I made arrangements for Tim to attend an acrobatics workshop in Cyprus over his summer break. He'll need it if I intend to have him base-jumping by next fall." I suppressed the urge to smile; I didn't want Bruce to think that I was deliberately trying to spite him. "Conveniently, you have a friend there that can work on his fighting ability."

"You have no idea what type of person you're speaking of or what she's capable of."

"That's why you should go talk to her. Might do you some good to get a little quality social interaction—bimbos and bats notwithstanding. Besides, we can make a move against that plug that the councilman has there. Since your friend is connected to it…two birds with one stone."

"Don't push me, Nightwing."

"To make this move or to accept Drake as Robin?"

His were as cold as gun-metal.

"Drake's capable of being Robin, I can feel it in my bones." I patted my heart with my hand. "And, I know you can too, you just don't want to admit it. The issue here isn't whether he's capable, it's whether you're going to admit he deserves the opportunity to try. Some of us are destined for causes bigger than ourselves. Don't deny him that. This _is_ what he wants—he just doesn't know it yet."

"I said _no_."

"The law tells you that you can't be Batman because vigilantism is illegal. Do you listen?"."

"Don't push me, Nightwing."

"Drake's capable of being Robin, I can feel it in my bones." I patted my heart with my hand. "And, I know you can too, you just don't want to admit it. The issue here isn't whether he's capable, it's whether you're going to admit he deserves the opportunity to try. Some of us are destined for causes bigger than ourselves. Don't deny him that. This _is_ what he wants—he just doesn't know it yet."

"I said _no_."

"The law tells you that you can't be Batman because vigilantism is illegal. Do you listen?"


	9. Lady Shiva

10:47 AM Batman. Seven months later.

Despite my opposition to the fact, I took a couple of days to fly out to Larnaca, Cyprus to look into the workshop that Nightwing had scheduled for Tim as well as meet with an old colleague. I decided I'd meet with my colleague at a coffee shop on the harbor before touring Tim's school. I preferred to handle the hard things first. I was not looking forward to seeing her—my colleague—and even more than that, the guilt that I felt being away from Gotham filled me with anxiety. It overflowed in my stomach, spilling into my knees. The anxiety made it difficult to be Bruce Wayne—it made it difficult to hide Batman. I managed it by trying to remain as aloof as possible.

Cameramen where waiting for me at the air-terminal, but I had covered myself in a wide-brimmed hat, shades, and a scarf to make pictures difficult.

I climbed into the Bentley that was waiting for me, and it sped off to our destination. It was perhaps a thirty-minute ride, but I decided it prudent to drive through random routes throughout the city and its countryside to shake any paparazzi. Over the years, I had come to realize their endurance. The paparazzi, while tenacious, were sprinters and not marathoners. They'd be highly motivated to follow me for the first hour, but only the most dedicated would continue through the second. A third hour was unlikely to yield any pictures at all.

My limousine stopped outside the coffee shop where I had planned to meet my acquaintance. I removed my covers and climbed from the backseat, checking that my flak vest was not visible beneath my suit. The weather in Larnaca was more accommodating of wearing multiple layers than the oppressive and soupy summer in Gotham City this time of year. The breeze was my ally in a circumstance like this.

I entered onto the patio of the coffee shop through a gate bordered by palm trees, shrubbery, and a flock of native flamingos foraging in the nearby waterway for food. I scanned the sparsely populated patio. It sported white aluminum tables and chairs and was bordered by a chest-high stake fence with two couples sitting near the door of the cafe. My colleague was sitting on the side opposite of me.

She wanted to be able to see me come in—she hadn't changed a bit.

"Bruce Wayne," she said warmly, her thin Asian eyes sizing me up.

"Sandra Wu-san," I greeted her in return as I snaked through the patio furniture.

One of the couples scrutinized me from their table. They must have recognized me.

"What has it been? More than a decade?" Sandra asked. She was dressed in a red and gray blouse with Asian accents, a black mini-skirt that sported red silk trimmings, and a pair of white pumps with chrome heels. Her hair was pulled back forming a tight, symmetrical bun that was held in place by two crisscrossed chopsticks. Her make-up was moderate, complimenting her yellow skin-tone, and her eyeshadow was smoky. Characteristically, she wasn't wearing earrings.

"It has been a long time," I agreed.

"You look well. A tad bit larger and less fat mass since last we saw each other. It would seem that you're in no less shape than you were in the past."

"Better."

"Without a doubt. You were always very focused." She looked deep into my eyes, and I threw off the appearance of Bruce for just a moment. Then she smiled, "Please, sit with me."

I pulled the reciprocal chair out and eased into it, folding my hands politely on the table.

"Can I interest you in some coffee, Bruce?"

"No, thank you."

She nodded slightly devoid of concern. "So, to what do I owe the honor? Is this a social call or business?" Sandra asked, lifting her cup to her lips.

"A little bit of both really."

She sipped her coffee and then placed it down; her lips left no lipstick on the rim. "Have you come to provide me with my rematch?"

"No—I'm here for something more important."

"What could be more important than what you owe me?"

"I have a favor to ask of you."

Her voice became suddenly cross. "What makes you think that I would _help_ you?"

"Your honor…"

She looked deep into me again, her eyes just as cold as mine. Then she gestured me with her hand. "Continue."

"I'm here to inform you that the young man, Tim Drake, that you've been training is my ward."

Her face flushed for a second and then composure took over. "That explains the _large compensation_."

"Indeed."

"He's of exceptional talent."

"And, I need that talent harnessed."

"One of your _agents_ contacted me and arranged this, then?"

"One of them."

She was calm, but her eyes told the truth—there was an agitation that she didn't realize that she had been manipulated. Whether that agitation was anger or sobering realization of something else was unclear. She was connected to some dangerous people, after all.

I heard footsteps coming towards us, then a shadow crawled across the table, followed by the scent of floral perfume. Instinctively, I tensed. But, Sandra showed no sign of threat, so I relaxed.

"Excuse me," a heavily accented lady interrupted our conversation. Sandra and I looked up. It was one of the ladies that was seated on the patio with us.

"Can I help you?" I asked, adding warmth to my best celebrity voice.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you and your lady, but are you, Bruce Wayne?"

"I am."

"Omigod! This is amazing! I have never met a celebrity before! Can I get a picture with you?" she exclaimed, pulling her phone from her pocket.

"I'd prefer that we didn't. But, I'll give you my autograph instead."

"Oh, that would be wonderful! Thank you!"

I took Sandra's napkin and signed my name with a signature that wasn't my own and then passed it to the lady. She thanked me several more times and then scurried back to her table.

Sandra and I picked back up right where we left off.

"Males are not allowed in my school of dance, Bruce. However, the compensation made me reconsider just this once."

That was code for _how dare you_.

"Thank you."

"What's the favor and why the deception?" There was venom in her voice.

"Because I didn't want _Sandra Wu-san_ training him with _our_ history in mind. You would allow our history to get in the way. I wanted Shiva to train him, and I figured the compensation would compel the very best from you."

"I don't take kindly to being manipulated."

"I'm aware. But, it was necessary."

She raised a brow. "Shiva, you say?" She was definitely angry.

"Yes—Shiva."

Sandra sat forward in her chair with all seriousness. "Is it a swift death you want for this boy, Bruce?"

"No."

"Then why would you seek Shiva to train him—especially through deception. Teaching requires compassion—Shiva has none."

"That's why I need Shiva to do the training. The mission he's undertaking and the people he'll fight will have no compassion. He must learn to fight in that environment."

"Now that I know _you're_ the patron, the money isn't enough, especially if you were looking for me, as Shiva, to train him."

"I figured as much."

Her expression hardened.

"Why are you here?"

"A press conference." I shrugged. "Name your price," I said.

"You're not being honest."

"We were trained that way, remember?" I replied.

"Shiva wants a rematch with the stoic Bruce Wayne."

"I'm not the boy I once was, Sandra…" It came out more as a warning than a qualifier.

She reached across the table and laid her hands on one of mine and smiled warmly. "Oh no—you are something far greater now…but then again, so am I." Her hands were dainty—perhaps half the size of mine—and delicate, but her knuckles were scarred and labored.

"I'm aware. I've paid attention to your exploits."

"Have you now?" Sandra's voice had the slightest hint of suggestion. "And, why is that?"

"I always have my ear to the ground. You know that."

"What have you learned about me?"

"That you're undefeated in the Khmer Nāga Fighting Circuit."

She half-smiled. "Your agent paid a very high amount to make the boy—"

"—unstoppable. I'm aware."

"Yes, unstoppable." She nodded at the statement as if confirming that this was all true. "Why did you seek me out?"

"Like I said, your honor. I trust your integrity. Always have."

She flicked the air with her fingers. "Do you, Bruce Wayne, accept my price?"

"Yes."

She looked away as if she were considering her next words. She looked back at me. "Why are you training this _boy_? What are you to possibly gain?"

"Hope."

She let out a throaty chuckle. "Hope?" she asked unconvinced, sipping her coffee again.

"Yes," I nodded. "Hope."

"Hope," she said, swishing the word around in her mouth thoughtfully. Then, her eyes squinted suspiciously. "Is this another deception?"

"There's nothing deceptive about hope, Sandra."

She sipped her coffee. "It wasn't something we were trained in—hope."

"That's why I left."

"You are the greatest enigma I have ever known."

I nodded.

"Don't let me down on your end of the bargain," she demanded curtly over the top of her coffee cup.

"Have I ever let you down?"

"Yes." Sandra drew her hands away. "Once."

We were silent for a moment, and then I said, "I should be going."

"You should," she said, folding her arms but not taking her eyes off of me.

"Ensure that you complete his training."

"On my honor."

I stood and checked my watch, and I placed money on the table for Sandra's coffee and started to leave but stopped when she spoke again.

"What if he doesn't survive my training?"

"Then I'll know that he wasn't meant for this path." I looked over my shoulder at her. "But, he will survive; he's like us."

"Very well. Shiva will deliver your boy. But she doesn't want her rematch with Bruce Wayne." Her voice became intense. "She wants her rematch with _something_ far greater."

I left without looking back. I had a fight to prepare for.


	10. Robin Evens The Odds

11:17 AM _Eastern European Time_ Batman. 4:17 AM _Eastern Standard Time_ Nightwing.

I drew out my phone and opened the conference channel, once I was back in the car and on my way.

"How'd it go, Bats?" Nightwing said once the signal was live.

"The seed is planted," I replied, shifting in my seat due to the tickle of sweat running down my spine, and rolling down the window a bit to let in fresh air.

"Hell yeah. Game on. They're not even going to know what hit them."

I looked for Oracle's presence on the application. "Is Oracle on the channel?"

"Nope. She decided to get to bed early since I was handling light work tonight. Been a rough couple nights with her trying to figure out where Black Mask fled to and I've been splitting my time between Dent's Executioners and the councilman's dealings."

"We have been busy."

"Hey, I know—" he started, but abruptly stopped. "Oh damn! Hang on!"

There were concussions in the background.

"Nightwing?

"Hang on! Hang on!"

"Are those gunshots?"

"Oh yeah. Big ones. They came with heat! At least a forty caliber!" He sounded as if he was _enjoying_ himself.

"I'll let you handle that."

"Hey, hey, hey, hold on! I know you're kind of sideways about Tim and this whole thing, but he'll be great. Shiva doesn't realize what she's up against."

"Shiva's not an opponent to dismiss—she's cunning and lethal."

"Yeah, I guess that's a _thing_. But, being Robin evens the odds. Trust me; I know this." His voice was all optimism.

"She'll make contact, and the operatives in Gotham will go to ground. You need to be ready. I assume they will put out a kill-order on the councilman."

"Oh—I'm ready, big guy." I could hear the hollow cracks of his blows landing, and the squeals of his targets crumpling. "Don't you worry about that. Babs and I are all over it. I'm tying up some loose ends right now. You know, keeping my muscles warm for the fireworks."

"Be careful."

He chortled, "Aren't I always?"

"No."

"I've got Gotham on lock, Batman. It'll be here when you get back. Handle your business."

"I'll let you know when I execute."

"I'll be ready to move when you do."

"Sounds like a plan. Batman out."


	11. For Your Sake

7:19 PM Shiva

She gurgled and went limp. Death came quickly to the uninitiated.

I had strangled her from behind, her weight supported by my legs and her neck pinned in a vice. It was far more merciful than a throttling. This kind of kill was not my typical modality, but time was of the essence, and I didn't want to waste the energy fighting an unworthy opponent.

I relished my handiwork in the same way that a painter regarded a painting after completion. She was a quaint young lady in her mid-twenties. Her hair smelled of lavender, and her skin was warm from standing in the sun. She was a single hopeful with a rosy aspiration of living in a future Shangri-La. She was an ideological acolyte of the utopian future preached by the League of Shadows.

I did not share her optimism nor her futurism, as I knew the sacrifice the League's ideology demanded. It was told to us—the initiated—that death would come early, and that Utopia was centuries away. The death toll would be catastrophic before utopia could be instituted. It bred a sort of a fatalist cynicism in a shadow. Acolytes, like this young hopefully, didn't have the same sensibilities. They didn't understand fully the sacrifices the Demon demanded. She was merely recruited by the internet and trained and paid for a specific task to further the cause of the League. I assumed that she had little issue verbalizing her devotion to the cause but acting on it was not nearly as easy. I bet her vision of a death in service of the League was romantic until the life was being choked from her body.

When I arrived, she was amicable, taking me for a random passerby happening upon her in her garden to say hello. However, when I suggested that we go inside, offering her a secret gesture for authentication, she became uneasy.

Once inside, I asked her for the _number_ and the means to conjure a demon. She burst into tears. I felt nothing. I truly didn't understand her anxiety toward death, but I expected it from her. She was, after all, an acolyte, not a shadow. She knew that upon divulging the _number_ , her life was forfeit. I assumed that she never expected this moment to come. And, perhaps the odds were that it never would, but her duty was the reason she was paid so handsomely. She had served her purpose in life. Now, she laid on the floor a dead, useless thing.

I went out into her garden and began digging with her spade at a position right beneath a young date tree that she indicated I could find the means to commune. After ten minutes or so, I struck something hard in the chocolate soil. I shoved the spade in harder, and it reported a metallic _thunk_. I dug and scrapped with more vigor until the geometric angles of a box, nearly the same color as the soil, peered out at me. I pulled the waterproof case, no bigger than my forearm, from the earth, and wiped dirt from its surfaces and creases as I made my way back inside.

I had the latch open by the time I was through the door and extracted a plastic bag with a small cellular phone inside. I placed the box onto a nearby table as I walked into a small dining area and began crunching the numbers—beep—beep—beep.

It rang and rang, and I waited anxiously for an answer, drumming my fingers against my thigh impatiently. This was not a phone call I wanted to make...ever. But, part of me knew that one day I would. I always knew that Wayne and I would cross paths again, and the League had strict protocols where Wayne was concerned.

"All hail his existence," a woman's voice answered on the other end, finally.

The anxiousness increased. I was conflicted. I knew that I had a duty to report to the highest levels of the League about an encounter with Wayne, but I was concerned I would be given an order that would impair my ability to fight him...again.

"May he forever rise," I replied.

The woman demanded, "Speak."

"I must speak with _him_."

"You are playing a dangerous game."

"I _would_ not request an audience if the situation were not dire. I must speak with _him_."

"Very well. He will be unhappy."

There was silence again—an eerie silence; my anxiousness grew more intense.

There was an electronic _click_ , then a voice as old as it was deep. "How dare you disturb my rest." It was baritone and had all welcoming gratitude of a sun-scorched ocean of unforgivable sand.

"Your eminence, you have to know that I would _never_ disturb you unless the situation were urgent."

" _Urgency_ does not concern me, Shiva. Only the gravest of circumstances are worthy of my notice." After all these years, his accent was still strange to my ears.

"Indeed, my lord. It is for that very reason I have eliminated an acolyte to uncover the means to commune with you. I assure you that what I have to tell you is of utmost importance."

"It better be," he said dismissively, "for your sake, Shiva."

I paused, considering if I was making the right decision. Not that it mattered at this point with the Demon's involvement.

"Speak—we cannot communicate telephonically for long. We have enemies, and they have ears."

"My lord, Bruce Wayne is here."

"Ah, the Detective."

"Yes. He's here in Cyprus."

"What is he up to? How have you come across this intelligence?"

"This isn't intelligence. I have a first-hand account. He made contact with me, directly."

" _You_? _Why_?"

"I was unaware, but he is the patron of a student that I have been teaching. I was contacted months ago by a client and offered an exorbitant compensation in exchange for my tutelage. There was no indication of a connection to Wanye until he personally divulged."

"Am I to assume that the compensation was not an _indicator_ , Shiva?"

"No, my lord. Nothing connected the two."

"Do multi-billionaires contact you regularly for your expertise?"

I remained silent.

"Who is the student?" he asked.

"A boy named Timothy Drake, my lord. He is barely an adult, but a promising warrior. He would make an excellent shadow."

"I will keep counsel as to who has the aptitude to serve among the initiated. And, as you can see, the Detective is formidable, and he consistently demonstrates why he is both _threat_ and _savior_ to our cause. He has devised a plan and is executing right beneath the noses of our most capable operatives. Why would he specifically contact _you_ , Shiva?

"Because of our history, my lord. He trusts my integrity."

"That wasn't a question; much less one that needed answering."

I sat quietly as he continued his external monologue. Not all of his thoughts seemed to connect, and he ran off tangentially as he expressed disappointment with several shadows, acolytes, and commanders throughout the League—and me.

Then he addressed me directly, "Shiva?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"I believe I know the Detective's purpose."

"My lord?"

" _You_ believe that the Detective trusts your integrity, but he, in fact, trusts the blindness of your greed. He is knighting a new Robin, and you are doing the training for him." His voice dripped with disdain.

I tried to defend myself, "I was unaware—" but he cut me off.

"Indeed, you were unaware. The Detective is as brilliant as he is elusive. It's the reason that you were never his equal.

"How long has he been there?"

I put my head down. "Perhaps a couple of days. The only useful information I could extract was from a photographer who was trying to take pictures of him."

"Old gods, curse your eyes. You could never be more incorrect. He hasn't been there for a few days. He has been there longer; it is only now that you are aware of him."

"Why would he reveal himself if he already had the element of surprise?"

"It was clearly a calculated choice, Shiva. Theatrics. He did it as a psychological measure. He is preparing the battlefield. You were likely the bait."

 _Wayne is anything but my equal; he lacks the conviction of a true warrior!_ was on the tip of my tongue, but I instead asked, "What are your orders?"

"Order the intelligence team out of the country and into hiding. You will destroy your assets and return to the fortress at once. Do not, under any circumstance, engage the Detective. He is a threat, and I don't need him to end you. Afterward, activate the sleeper shadows and order them to kill the boy."

The line went dead.

I slammed the phone against the wall. It splattered in a shower of black plastic fragments.

How dare that old fool disrespect me! No one in the League could defeat me! Not him and I would prove that Wayne could not either.

I inhaled deeply and exhaled through my nose slowly.

Enough of this. I was not going to let my ego control me. I did not want to kill the boy, nor did I want to avoid my chance to fight Wayne. I needed to meditate on the internal conflict of my personal desire and my duty to the League.


End file.
